borderline

There’s a kind of weather inside the mind that doesn’t show up on forecasts. It rolls in without warning— a sky split open between love and ruin, lightning striking the same place twice because it can’t tell it’s already burned. They call it a name like it’s a box you can seal shut with clean edges, but it moves like smoke through fingers, like a childhood you tried to outgrow but it grew up inside you instead. Some days, love feels like standing too close to a fire just to prove you can feel warmth without disappearing. Other days, it feels like being abandoned in a room that still echoes footsteps long after everyone has left. And trauma— trauma is a mirror that never forgets what it was forced to reflect. It keeps your past alive in the present tense, so even safe hands can feel like danger if they hold you too suddenly. You learn to read the world in micro-shifts: a tone, a silence, a pause too long— your nervous system becomes a historian writing wars into everyday conversations. And still, you love. God, you love like it’s the only language you were born with. Too hard. Too fast. Too full. Like pouring an ocean into a cup and wondering why it spills. Then there’s loss— not just absence, but amputation. Th